The Delphi Room
Page 5
MOTHER
Oh for fuck’s sake.
(pause)
How do I look? Look at my new shoes. I blew the bank. Italian leather. Like buttah!
VELVET
You want my honest opinion?
MOTHER
No. Yes. Not really.
VELVET
(sizing her up)
You look good. You always look good. The picture of sweetness and light.
MOTHER
Oh you’re an angel! Why don’t you make yourself a tinfoil halo? Sweetness and light! Ha ha! Lie to me some more.
(pause)
So, you really think I look all right?
VELVET
You look like Mae West. Well, your face does, anyway. Maybe you should dye your hair blonde.
MOTHER
I’ve thought about it. Hmmm . . . shit, I should’ve made a drugstore run for Clairol. Ha! Mae West, you say. Well, I do all my best work in bed.
She takes a long drink from the gin bottle.
MOTHER
Shit, I’m nervous. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m a wrecked bundle of nerves. Okay. You remember what I told you?
VELVET
When the doorbell rings, take the fruit rollups and stay upstairs.
MOTHER
Good girl.
(pause)
Do I look fat?
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—NIGHT
Velvet sits on the floor of her bedroom, with three red fruit rollups draped across her lap. She points and flexes her nail polish-flowered feet.
VELVET
Rather fetching, don’t you think, Delilah?
Her mother’s raucous laughter, together with a deep male voice, drifts up the stairs to Velvet’s ears.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—KITCHEN—CONTINUOUS
A short white candle cries waxy tears down an empty wine bottle on the kitchen table. The sky-blue blueness of Velvet’s mother’s T-shirt dress looks icy in the candlelight as it melts over an epicure’s wobbling flesh. The woman herself is seated at the table, smoke from her cigarette curling upward like a prayer. The man with olive skin also smokes, the pungent stream from his cigar rising alongside her offering in a competition for benediction. Both drink whisky.
The Mae West look-alike (sans platinum locks), scrapes her fingers on the bottom of her empty chocolate mousse bowl, without looking at it, as though she’s trying to read some sort of culinary Braille. Every once in a while she sticks them in her mouth and sucks, relishing the scant vestiges of dessert.
Olive Man is telling a story and Mae/Mother laughs all through it, choking on her drink and spitting some back in her glass.
OLIVE MAN
You all right, honey?
Mae West nods, still choking. Olive Man pours the last of the whisky into his tumbler and downs it in a swallow. She stumbles out of her chair and onto his lap, straddling him. She grabs one of his hair-covered hands and places it on her breast.
MAE/MOTHER
(coughing)
Wanna go upstairs? My daughter’s asleep.
OLIVE MAN
You have a daughter?
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—CONTINUOUS
Velvet rips her red fruit rollups into little strips and begins braiding them. The sounds of Mae/Mother’s choking laughter and Olive Man’s baritonic slurs surge in a cacophonous tide up the stairs. The fruit leather tapestry needs no attention—the stylist is adept—and so Velvet focuses her gaze on the black outside her window, on the moon hung like a congealed and sculpted tear.
VELVET
(sings softly)
“Two drifters, off to see the world
There’s such a lot of world to see . . .”
MAE/MOTHER
(O.S.)
I get these fucking headaches. Night after night.
There is a loud thump.
MAE/MOTHER
(O.S) (laughing)
Get off! Wait ’til we get upstairs. Ssshhh! You’ll wake up my daughter!
Velvet stuffs all her fruit rollup braids in her mouth, but doesn’t chew them. She crawls to her door, which is ajar, and peers into the hallway.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—UPSTAIRS HALLWAY—CONTINUOUS
Mae/Mother crawls up the last couple of stairs with Olive Man on top of her, pulling off her dress.
MAE/MOTHER
(loudly)
Holy fuck! I think I’m . . . a little tipsy!
She is naked, and Olive Man’s shirt hangs open. He is pulling off his belt.
MAE/MOTHER
Ssshhh! Be quiet!
Olive Man dives on top of her, wraps his belt around her neck.
MAE/MOTHER
Ow! Watch it! Oh yeah . . .
(laughs)
“A hard man is good to find!” I’m quoting! That’s a quote!
Velvet watches, half hidden by her door. Fruit rollup braids sprout from her mouth.
Mae/Mother pulls off the belt.
MAE/MOTHER
Wait! Inside, inside! No!
(laughs)
Bed, I said bed! Ssshhh! Quiet!
A cuckoo clock on the wall explodes in a frenzy of squawking, sounding the discordant hour.
MAE/MOTHER
Shit! I hate that fucking clock!
Olive Man devours her mouth. His pants have come down around his knees. The watchbird on the wall continues to crow.
MAE/MOTHER
(between kisses)
Shut . . . the . . . fuck . . . up . . . you . . . stupid . . . bird! Oh!
Olive Man’s underwear goes south. His buttocks are white and gleaming as the moon—the goddess Diana is appalled. He enters Mae/Mother; their two bodies loll and thrash on the carpet. A cry escapes from her throat, while guttural groans exit from his. Velvet, in her doorway, plugs her ears and closes her eyes, chews her fruit rollup braids. In a moment she opens her eyes, unplugs her ears and wraps her arms around herself. Olive Man again wraps his belt around Mae/Mother’s throat. A broken crying rhythmic chant replaces the din of the clock. As banshees from bellies, screeches pour forth. The shrieking woman clings to the belt, yanking it loose, while the shrieking man holds fast to fistfuls of his lady’s hair. Velvet covers her mouth with her hands. A final howl, a dual petition to the moon, bays through the ceiling. Gasping and glistening, Mae/Mother and Olive Man lie supine on the floor.
MAE/MOTHER
Oh . . .
(laughs)
Baby . . .
OLIVE MAN
Huh?
MAE/MOTHER
I said bed . . .
Velvet closes her door.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—VELVET’S BEDROOM—LATER
Out the window and into the night—Velvet kneels on her bed with her face pressed to the glass. The moon is violent in its brightness. A wind has its way with the trees. Velvet blows on the window and writes Roman numerals in the fog, her finger squeaking against the glass. She pauses in her artistry, and the quietness is full and unbroken, a Zen circle. A punch to an unseeing eye—brawling yells from the room next door, a motley chorus of pitches and tones, assault the silent circle. Velvet freezes, then melts into motion toward her door. She opens it, slow and tentative.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—HALLWAY—CONTINUOUS
Mae/Mother’s bedroom door is partly ajar, but not open enough to reveal the room’s contents. Velvet sits crouched in her doorway.
MAE/MOTHER
(O.S.)
You fucking prick! Fuck!
There is a crash.
MAE/MOTHER
Off!
She begins to scream.
MAE/MOTHER
Get away from me!
OLIVE MAN
You fucking bitch! You fucking cu—Ow!!!
There is another crash. More screams. Velvet is crying.
VELVET
(screaming)
Mom! Mom! Mom!
Olive Man stampedes from the bedroom in his underwear, an unpenned bull. His clothes a rolled-up ball under one arm. He dervishes down the stairs, stumbling and falling into the railing. Mae/Mother staggers from her bedroom, bleeding from her nose and mouth. She stands at the top of the stairs.
MAE/MOTHER
AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Olive Man yanks open the front door and charges at the night. Mae/Mother crumples like a bloody tissue, her forehead pressed to the stair railing, and wails. Then she is silent. The only noise is that of a car starting up and roaring away. Velvet, still crying, crawls to her mother. She places her hands on Mae/Mother’s back, as though to absorb a rogue current that flows through the nakedness, twitching and shuddering all the flesh. The twitching woman dabs at the red tide on her face with skittish fingers, then stares at the splotches of crimson gush on their tips. She looks at her daughter with the pained incomprehension of a wounded animal: the innocence of disbelief. Velvet hugs her mother, burying her face in the bleeding woman’s breasts. Fresh cries, softer and more delicate, exhale into the shadows. The young girl with the nail polish flowers on her feet and the Cézanne-bodied woman with the vampy, movie star face fall in tandem to the floor, lie spooning like lovers in the sun on the carpet in the dark hallway.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—LIVING ROOM—LATER
Velvet sits at a decrepit piano. Her mother enters from the kitchen, drink in hand, wearing a short, silk bathrobe. She has wiped the blood from her swollen face.
MAE/MOTHER
Play for me, darling. Calms me down right away. Oh, wait! Candles, every performance needs candles.
She sets her drink down on a scarred table, spilling a little. As though seized by a sudden fit of amnesia—or merely a leading lady on pause—she is motionless for several moments, before touching her fingers to her brow to channel obscure knowledge through a manicure. Velvet watches her frown and shake her head, then startle as at the blast of a gun.
MAE/MOTHER
Matches . . . matches, matches, matches.
(fishes matches out of a bowl of potpourri)
Aha! Safe, safekeeping.
Several candles stud the room. Mae/Mother attempts to light a match, but her hands are shaking too much.
VELVET
Let me do it.
MAE/MOTHER
No, no, I’ve got it.
(strikes match)
There. There.
(lights candle, match goes out)
Well. One is all we need.
Retrieves her drink, holds the glass to her face. Looks long at her daughter. Lies down on the floor.
MAE/MOTHER
Okay, I’m ready, darling. Begin. Begin.
Velvet turns to the piano, takes a deep breath, and begins to pick out “Chopsticks.” As she plays, her mother cries, and the choking sobs cacophonize with the uncertain musical notes. The song ends and Mae/Mother clamps a hand over her mouth, removes it, breathes deeply and sits up.
MAE/MOTHER
It was an accident. It was an accident. I fell down. He didn’t mean . . . It was an accident. Little Vee. My little Vee . . .
Velvet turns and looks at her mother. They stare at one another across the room. The single candle flame unrolls its scarf of smoke, trails its black chiffon through the still air. Velvet nods.
MAE/MOTHER
Oh, you’re my little angel. You know that? My little angel. Where’s your halo? Your tinfoil halo. I’ll make you one tomorrow. I love you, I love only you. Do you know that? Oh, I feel so much better. I feel so much better.
(starts to cry)
So much better. Okay.
(lies down)
I’m just going to lie here for a while. I love it when you play. Calms me down right away. “Play it again, Sam . . .” You know I love Casablanca. What a romantic movie.
(laughs bitterly)
“Play it again, Sam . . .”
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
DAVIE’S APARTMENT—BEDROOM—NIGHT
The bedroom walls are overwhelmed by black-and-white posters of Shakespearean stage productions, tiny movie stubs that have been tacked up, random squares of tinfoil, programs from concerts, takeout menus, handwritten lists with headings such as: Things To Do Today, People To Do Today, Things To Do Never, Favourite Words, Words I Hate, Best Hamlets of the Past 100 years, Best Hair in Hollywood, Astrological Combinations Most Often Resulting in True Love, Top Ten Reasons Why There’s No Such Thing as True Love, Most Gratifying Sexual Positions/Two Perspectives, Shakespeare’s Greatest Tragedies, World’s Greatest Poets According To Velvet, Top Seven Reasons Why the Ukulele is the Greatest Instrument on Earth. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, while two very phallic-looking lava lamps provide further light. The bed is a mattress on the floor, covered with threadbare and somewhat dirty bedding. The only other furniture in the room is an overturned wooden crate stamped with the words “Produce of Thailand.” It serves as a night table, and it is on this that several framed photographs of Velvet—outfitted in elaborate vintage fashion—sit, along with a camera.
Davie is sprawled naked on his bed, smoking a cigarette in an antique cigarette holder. Velvet, clad in hand-painted jeans and a top trimmed with sequins and pink feathers, sits on the bed with her back to a wall, knees drawn chinward, a pillow between her legs. She watches him smoke; her eyes never leave him.
DAVIE
Here.
He passes her the cigarette. She inhales and passes it back to him.
DAVIE
Did you buy me a birthday present?
VELVET
You don’t get to know that ’til tomorrow.
DAVIE
Christ got gifts on his birthday.
VELVET
You’re not Christ.
DAVIE
How do you know? I could be the Messiah reincarnated, with better hair. Anyway, I deserve a gift. A birthday is a sign of spiritual evolution.
VELVET
How is a birthday a sign of spiritual evolution? It’s a sign that you’re on a steady march to eventually qualifying for ten percent off the Early Bird Special. And how do you know that Christ got gifts? He wasn’t materialistic.
DAVIE
Birthdays create psychological torment. It’s the fight against psychological torment that creates spiritual evolution. And I happen to know that all the disciples loved to pool their resources and get JC something special.
VELVET
You’re weird. And when have you ever felt psychological torment?
DAVIE
In the lapses between fucking and eating I get a little cranky.
Velvet laughs and touches her feet to Davie’s side.
DAVIE
Aaahhh! Your feet are freezing.
VELVET
So pay your heating bills. Then I’d have warm feet.
DAVIE
Don’t need to. I’m warm-blooded.
VELVET
I’m not.
DAVIE
It’s ’cuz of the straitjacket. It’s bad for the circulation.
VELVET
Shut up. I wasn’t in a straitjacket—well, not after the first few days. I was in a Quiet Room. But he still came to torture me.
DAVIE
Your friend the Shadowman? Is he still a shape-shifter?
VELVET
He’s not my friend. I’ve never told anyone else about him, you know. Except for the doc
tors and they don’t believe me, I can tell. They’re very condescending.
DAVIE
I believe you, my darling Velcro Chenille. But then, I’m a very deep and sensitive person. If you want my advice, stop telling the doctors that there’s a monster-man stalking you, and then you won’t have to go to the hospital anymore. I’ll keep your secret.
VELVET
But what about when he maims me? He’s nice to me sometimes. Sometimes he’s fun and creative. He loves movies, all the ones I love. And he’s helping me write my book. The meds make me too tired. So I’ve sort of been forgetting to take them. They make me feel like I’m walking through Jell-O all the time, in slow motion.
DAVIE
Wow, I’ve never walked through Jell-O in fast motion. That might be a cool feeling.
VELVET
You’re not listening. I’m tired of being tired. Everything feels hard. Getting dressed feels hard. And you know what else? I’m afraid he might not come back. Isn’t that warped?
DAVIE
No, it’s not warped. After all, he knows you so well. But I have a feeling the Shadowman’ll be back. Call me psychic. And you know what the Irish say: “The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know.” You just happen to have a particularly colourful devil.
VELVET
That’s sick.
DAVIE
(shrugs)
You’re sick.
Velvet looks wounded.
DAVIE
Relax. I love sick. Sick is beautiful. Sick is interesting.
VELVET
Will you come visit me in the Quiet Room?
DAVIE
I always come visit you. Since when would I ever pass up the opportunity to give my two cents’ worth of advice to the medical establishment?
VELVET
I wish I were more like you.
DAVIE
Charming and devilishly handsome? My darling, there is only so much charisma to go around.
Davie balances the cigarette holder on an empty tuna can on the crate-cum-night table. He holds out his arms to Velvet.
DAVIE
Princess Velcro Chenille!
Velvet tosses the pillow she held between her legs and dives on top of Davie, giggling.